I’m convinced it becomes autonomous as soon as you become a parent. No sooner does the doorbell go, than you’re uttering that sentence. Often you’re saying it before you’ve even seen who’s at the door or indeed if they even want to come in. But you say it anyway, in an exhausted manner, “Please excuse the mess.”
It could be one of your closest friends, a friend who knows very well your house never looks like a show home. Yet you say it anyway. “Please excuse the mess,” as you gesture at everything.
The phone rings and I can feel myself saying it as if the person on the other end can sense that those plates were from the day before. Even though they’re actually from two days before. “Hello? Yeah speaking. Look, is this about the mess?”
A breath of fresh air
I’m happy to report those days are behind me. I’ve surrounded myself with people who know that it’s rather impractical to exist in a home that looks like it’s fresh out of a sitcom, especially when you have children. I’d love to tell you that I arrived at this state of acceptance all by myself but it’s not the case. There were a couple of contributing factors.
The first of these came with a dash of bitterness if I’m being honest. The wonderful educators and my son’s daycare have instilled a set of values that I was eternally grateful for, but these values didn’t extend beyond the walls of the daycare.
I’d often watch on in bewilderment as my son would forgo the coveted early pick-up in favour of packing up whatever he happened to be playing with when I arrived. Even asking where things should go if he was unsure. It was beautiful. But, as we’ve discussed here in the past, that was his daycare personality. When we got home, he was in his comfort zone around a father who he had well and truly wrapped around his little finger, things go where things go.
Books may have come from the library, but that doesn’t mean they can’t live in the dog bed, under his bed or even on top of the microwave.
Memories are made of this
And this was something I just had to patiently correct along the way. All the while, envious and a little resentful of how the rules were administered and followed to perfection at daycare, while I had to grovel and barter incessantly for shoes to be stored next to each other. Not even in a particular spot. Just close to each other.
Then came some of the best advice I’ve had in the parenting world. The essence being to just chill the hell out, the eloquence of it delivered far softly: they’re making memories.
And that’s it. That’s exactly what they’re doing. They’re making memories, we all are. So what if there’s clay on the table, paintbrushes on the kitchen bench, soccer balls you don’t even remember buying littering the backyard? Who cares? This is a home. It’s their home and it’s lived in.
As soon as I resigned to that, it became a lot easier. I’ve always been pretty tidy myself but to expect of it a child is ridiculous, and more importantly, to expect it of me is ridiculous. I’m not spending every waking moment following a toddler around my house and picking up after him like some sort of underpaid Roomba. I know they don’t get paid but I feel like I’d be the one more out of pocket. They at least sit on a charging station once in a while.
They’re making memories. How beautiful is that? I’ll admit that when I first heard that, my internal response was, “They are but they’re devaluing our house in the process.” But that was internal so just keep that between us, ok?
